Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread
by SomewhereApart
Summary: Breakfast in the Enchanted Forest. For Outlaw Queen week day 3: Firsts.


Peanut butter.

She misses peanut butter. Terribly so. There are no peanuts in the Enchanted Forest, and thus no peanut butter. Regina adds it to the list of things that make Storybrooke far superior to this godforsaken forest.

Peanut butter. Air conditioning. Tampons (god, does she miss those now that they're gone). Granny's French fries. Undergarments that don't require more than three hooks to fasten. Matinee movies with Henry.

Henry.

Henry, most of all.

Her heart aches, persistently, a dull throb beneath her breastbone that never abates. Occasionally it sharpens, twists into something so acute she almost can't breathe.

Grief, she thinks.

She'd felt something like this after Daniel, but this is worse. Much worse. Losing Daniel annihilated her, suffocated the sweet, kind girl she'd once been and made her into something angry and twisted and vicious, and losing Henry is worse. Harder. But it doesn't make her sharper, doesn't hone her into a weapon.

It just makes her weary. Makes her heart throb painfully in her chest. Makes her throat close up so tightly it hurts to swallow and brings tears pricking her eyes at inopportune times.

Times such as now, when she's sitting at the breakfast table - slathering jam and goat cheese on a hunk of bread (they seem to have misplaced the dairy cows in the thirty years this place was abandoned to her curse, so she's adding real butter and proper hot cocoa to her list as well) and wishing with all her might for peanut butter instead. Peanut butter, and Henry, and a throat not so choked with grief because she is about to have visitors.

She can see them in her periphery, the little boy's dark head bobbing along, and his father's easy gait. The archer - no, the _thief_ - and his son. The boy has taken a shine to her, asks her questions constantly about living in a castle, about knights, and swords, and valiant steeds, and all the things little boys - even little outlaws - love.

"My majesty!" He shouts joyfully - and despite the tears she is hastily wiping from her eyes, she feels herself smile at the endearment. He knows how to say it properly - she has corrected him before - but he insists that she is, in fact, _his_ majesty, for he has never had his own queen until her. "You're up!"

"I am," she confirms, looking at Roland, and then despite her best intentions, glancing up at Robin and hoping he can't see the traces of her grief on her face. He can, of course, she can tell by the way his expression changes, his mouth tipping down into a concerned frown. He has a way of seeing straight through her that Regina finds unsettling.

She braces for his questioning, but it doesn't come. Instead, she is faced with Roland clambering over the bench to sit next to her, right next to her, close enough that his little elbows knock against her when he moves. Regina goes rigid, his proximity making that ache in her chest coil tighter.

There's no good reason for his crowding her, they're nearly alone in the dining hall, only a smattering of other bodies dotting the long wooden benches here. It's no surprise considering the hour - the sun has only just now crested the horizon, and the lanterns on the table had been practical more than decorative when she'd arrived nearly half an hour ago. She hasn't slept yet, doesn't much these days (that goes on the list as well - long nights of uninterrupted sleep), but the gnawing hunger of last night's skipped dinner had pulled her out of bed and into the dining hall before first light.

What's their excuse, she wonders.

"I'm surprised to see you here so early, Roland," she tells him as kindly as she can muster (and she likes the boy, so it comes out with relative ease, even if she feels unsettled). Robin is still watching her, she can feel it. How is it that she can always _feel_ his gaze on her?

And then he speaks.

"Roland likes to rise with the sun," Robin informs. There's exhaustion in his voice, he's not been awake long, and from the sound of it he wishes to crawl right back beneath the covers and return to his slumber. But he's smiling fondly at his son, rubbing a hand over the boy's hair affectionately before reaching for the jug on the table in front of them and sniffing at its contents. It's apple juice - she's been nursing a cup of it since she arrived. Robin reaches for two clean cups nearby as he adds, "A habit he did not inherit from me, I assure you."

"Papa sleeps late," Roland informs her, his speech muffled by the heel of bread he had unceremoniously shoved into his mouth just before speaking. He reaches for a plate of berries in front of her, chewing enthusiastically on his crusts and for a moment (not the first, and not the last) he reminds her of Henry (Christmas Eve, with a sugar cookie jammed into his mouth, crumby fingers reaching for a piece of fudge, and she shouldn't let him have this much sugar, will pay for it later, but it's Christmas and even hopped up on sweets, her 6-year-old son is the best gift she's ever gotten, and he's beaming with joy and nonpareils).

Regina feels the grief rise up and choke her again, so harshly she has to turn away from them before Robin catches sight of her tears. Roland is trying to shove blueberries around the bread he is still chomping, oblivious to her pain.

"Regina," Robin's voice is soft and kind, and her cheeks burn with embarrassment because he has seen right through her again. "Would you prefer to eat in peace?"

Roland hears that, though, and let's out a scandalized, "Papa!" and for a reason she can't place, Regina finds herself loathe to disappoint the child. So she breathes deeply, blinking back her tears, then exhales and turns to Robin with a tight, forced smile and a shake of her head.

"No, that's quite alright," she assures him, adding, "I could use the company."

"Happy to oblige, then, your majesty," he tells her, before he sets about preparing a breakfast for himself and his boy from the early morning's paltry offerings. A moment later, though, he gives Roland a good, playful yank, tugging the boy into his side with enough force to send him into a peal of giggles.

"Papa!" he cries, laughing. Robin chuckles with him, and Regina finally feels like she has some space to breathe again. She catches his eye again, glancing over as she sips at her juice, and Robin nods, understanding passing between them. He sees that she's struggling, but as the decency not to rub it in her face and for that's she's grateful. So she gives him a short nod in return, sets down her cup and picks up her bread as Roland begins to tell her of the great adventure he had yesteday, climbing a beanstalk to visit the giants. (It was a trellis of thick ivy along the north wall of her old garden and _he never made it more than three feet off the ground, I assure you,_ Robin tells her when she questions if scaling the castle isn't a bit dangerous for a 4-year-old boy.)

They stay there until Regina has finished eating, until the hall is beginning to fill, and platters of sausages and flapjacks are being carted out from the kitchens. Roland's eyes go big as saucers, and he insists his breakfast of bread and cheese and berries has not left him too full for sausage and hash. Regina is tired, though, her sleepless night beginning to catch up with her, and she's just spied Snow making her way into the room and would prefer not to have to deal with the princess this early and with so little rest.

So she excuses herself, and rises, but before she can fully extricate herself from the table, Robin reaches over and grasps her fingers. It's just to get her attention, but he lingers, doesn't release his hold as he says, "Milady, I do hope we'll find you here again tomorrow morning. I've quite enjoyed your company."

Regina feels a flutter of something in her chest that is not pain and stomps down hard on it. "That's a first," she taunts him, with enough bite to hopefully deter him, but enough kindness to satisfy the boy staring up at them as she attempts to depart.

But Robin is, as ever, unruffled by her. "I assure you, Regina, that it's not."

And then he lets her fingers go, and Regina beats a hasty retreat before she can think too hard on what he said.

That day is the first time they take their morning meal together, but it's far from the last. She finds them there often, beside her, up with the rising sun.


End file.
